It's All in the Wrist, Sam Winchester
by asteroidbuckle
Summary: Sam has needs. Sometimes they require a helping hand. Namely, Dean's. And yes, it IS what the title implies. Wincest.
1. June 17, 1995

**Title:** It's All in the Wrist, Sam Winchester  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** Dean/Sam  
**Rating:** R  
**Word Count:** 901  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters. No profit being made, no offense intended.  
**Spoilers:** none  
**Notes/Warnings:** masturbation by a minor

**Summary: **Sam has needs, too. Sometimes they require an extra hand. Namely, his brother's.

**A/N:** The seeds of Wincest are sown. (And why I suddenly decided to write a five part masturbation fic when I have half a dozen other fics needing my immediate attention, I'll never know! My muse works in mysterious ways.)

***  
_June 17, 1995 – The Blue Boy Motel – Ely, Minnesota_

The paint was off-white and a hairline crack ran along the ceiling plaster, ending in a divot the size of Dean's fist over the showerhead. Sam pressed his back against the peeling wallpaper and drew his knees up higher, his tailbone digging into the cold tile floor. He gritted his teeth and peered through his sweaty bangs at the bare light bulb over the sink. The tendons in his wrist were starting to seize up on him, the ache in his hand slowly morphing into a sharp line of pain, like the time he slashed his palm when Dean was trying to teach him how to defend against a knife attack.

Dean's fist. That was the reason Sam was doing this in the first place, the reason why he had his hand down the front of his pajama pants, and why he had the sudden flash of his hand freezing in that shape if he didn't stop soon. And wouldn't that be just great? Dad would fix him with that look of barely concealed disappointment and Dean would never stop laughing.

Stupid Dean and his stupid fist. Sam didn't know what the big deal was, anyway. It's not like he'd never seen Dean's fist before. He'd seen it plenty of times, had even been on the receiving end of it once or twice when Dad wasn't looking (which was a lot, actually). Only…he'd never, _ever_ seen it like _that_ before: fingers curled loosely, moving up and down, up and down, thumb darting out periodically, wrist muscles working beneath his skin.

_Sam hadn't meant to stare. He'd simply gone into the bathroom to brush his teeth, just like a million times before. It was almost routine, really. While Dean was in the shower, Sam would brush his teeth and comb his hair and obsess about the disproportionality of his limbs in the foggy mirror._

_But then there was the groan. And the crack in the shower curtain where Dean hadn't closed it all the way. At first it was just the noise, and Sam paused, listening for it again. But when he didn't hear it, he picked up his toothbrush. Then in the mirror, he saw the reflection of Dean's hand press against the wall of the shower, heard the muted but distinct sound of the F-word being uttered in his brother's voice._

He should've called out his brother's name or something because…well, he just should have.

Sam clenched his jaw so tight he thought he felt his molars crack and dug the fingers of his left hand into his thigh, the worn flannel of his pajama pants bunching against his palm.

_It was like watching a train wreck; Sam couldn't look away. Along the entire length of Dean's right forearm, the muscles contracted and twitched. His head was bowed low, dipping below the line of his left arm, and water dripped down his scalp and over his face to fall in rivulets from his nose and chin. Shallow breaths disturbed the smooth flow of water as they pushed past Dean's slightly parted lips._

Sam wanted to cry out, but he bit it back, squeezing his eyes shut so tight, shooting stars flew across the backs of his eyelids. Dizziness started creeping in around the edges.

_Dean threw his head back, white teeth flashing through lips drawn back into a near snarl. Thick ropes of semen spurted from the circle of Dean's fist and Sam dropped his toothbrush on the floor. To Sam's ears, it sounded like a bomb going off, the noise bouncing off the walls of the tiny bathroom like a 21-gun salute. He stood frozen, staring wide-eyed at the slit in the shower curtain, waiting for Dean to poke his head out and tell Sam to get lost._

_Only…he didn't. The water just kept running and Dean instead started singing some old Led Zeppelin song that Sam hated, mostly because he didn't know the words and was always left out when Dad and Dean sang it together in the car. So Sam just stood there, staring at the ratty shower curtain, trying to figure out what he was going to do about the bulge in his pajamas._

His release leaked out through the thin line of his lips in the form of an exhausted whimper. He tasted blood and realized he'd chewed through the skin on the inside of his bottom lip. He let his head fall back against the wall with a hollow thud and breathed out, opening his eyes to stare through his bangs at the ceiling, the view pulsing with each heartbeat. He stared until his eyelids drooped and he once again became aware of the cold tile under his butt.

Pulling his hand away, he flexed his fingers and grimaced. There was something cold and slick on the back of his hand, drying on his skin, and he was suddenly aware of the wet spot in his shorts and how uncomfortable it would soon be. He made a face and stood up, the tile cold under his bare feet as he walked over to the sink. Turning on the water, he squirted extra soap onto his palm and scrubbed twice as long as normal. When he finished rinsing, he looked at himself in the mirror—and couldn't help the small smile that crept across his face.

***

_Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you._


	2. August 4, 1996

**Title:** It's All in the Wrist, Sam Winchester  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** Dean/Sam  
**Rating:** R  
**Word Count:** 934  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters. No profit being made, no offense intended.  
**Spoilers:** none  
**Notes/Warnings:** implied masturbation by a minor, incestuous thoughts

**Summary: **Sam has needs, too. Sometimes they require an extra hand. Namely, his brother's.

**A/N:** The seeds of Wincest are germinating. The pressure builds...

***

_August 4, 1996 – The Imperial Inn – Albuquerque, New Mexico_

Dad was gone. Sam stood outside room 117 and stared up at the sky. It was dark and the dust in the air made the moon look fuzzy. He pulled at the front of his t-shirt, welcoming even the slight movement of air against his chest. It had been hot all day, with no breeze, and they'd been cooped up in the motel room. But it was getting cooler now, like it always did in the desert. Freaky desert weather—stifling one second, freezing the next.

He wished Dean would hurry up, though. He really needed to pee and he didn't really want to go to the front office; the lady behind the counter weirded him out. He supposed he could always go around back and find a corner or something, but that weirded him out even more. The last thing he needed was to be taken by surprise with his wiener hanging out. Dean would never let him live it down.

A high-pitched squeal cut through the quiet from their room and Sam gritted his teeth.

The dust thrown into the air by the Impala's tires hadn't even settled yet when Dean had grabbed Sam by the arm and dragged him out of the room. Armed with a fake ID and enough charm to make girls within a ten-mile radius drop their panties, he had taken Sam to a place called Pat's Corral and sweet-talked the bartender—a woman named Luanne who had a tattoo of a snake around her right biceps—into keeping an eye on Sammy while Dean shot a few rounds of pool.

An hour later, Dean had won a hundred bucks and the temporary affection of a blonde named Debbie, whose voice, when she'd said his name, had made Sam want to hurl. They'd walked back to the motel, Sam trailing behind Dean and Debbie as he kicked the dirt and tried not throw up as he watched them pass a cigarette back and forth.

There it was again. _Her_ voice. Then Dean's. Then Dean's and hers together.

Sam knew what they were doing; he wasn't stupid. And they were doing it on the bed he and Dean would be sharing later if Dad came back to stake his claim on the other one. It wasn't fair. It was _their_ bed. If Dean should be touching anyone on it, it should be Sam.

And _holy crap,_ where did that come from?

Another squeal, another low grunt, and Sam swallowed, bunching his hands into fists inside his pockets. He pictured Dean's hands. Dean had a scab on his left middle finger where he'd cut it fixing something under the Impala's hood. Sam had cleaned the wound himself, Dean teasing him, calling him Nursemaid Sammy. But what Sam remembered the most was the texture of Dean's palm, the heat of his skin, and the way Dean had flipped him off, using the excuse that Sam had wrapped the band aid too tight and he couldn't bend his finger.

Dean's fingers, however, were currently on Debbie. Or _in_ Debbie. And _heck no_ was he thinking about _that_. Gross.

Only…he couldn't seem to _stop_ thinking about it lately. And it wasn't Debbie he'd been imagining, either. Or any girl for that matter.

He swallowed again and opened his hand inside his right pocket, sliding his fingers along the rough lining. When the tips of his fingers just barely touched his erection, he closed his eyes and bit back a whimper. It wouldn't take long, he knew. Just a few strokes, a little pressure. He pressed in harder, running the edges of his nails along the length. He felt a thin sheen of sweat break out beneath his clothes despite the cool night.

_It's all in the wrist, Sammy,_ he heard Dean say inside his head. _Like this._ Not that Dean had ever shown him how to do it, but Sam remembered. Remembered Minnesota. Remembered the shower and the steam and the muscles working in Dean's wrist. _It's all in the wrist._

But Sam couldn't use his wrist, wouldn't need to, really. Just a little…more…pressure… He sucked in his bottom lip, sunk his front teeth into it.

The door opened behind him and his eyes flew open. He drew back his hand and tucked his fingers back into a fist. His heart was thudding wildly, making him short of breath, and he hoped Dean wouldn't be able to tell what he'd been doing.

Sam turned, his mouth open to say something witty, funny, stupid, whatever. Just something to distract Dean away from studying Sam too closely. But as it turned out, Debbie's tongue was offering enough of a distraction on its own.

Twisting his mouth into a smirk, Sam crossed his arms over his chest and said irritably, "It's about time. I have to pee." And he pushed through the small space between the doorframe and Dean's back and into the room.

It stunk. Just like always. Sam avoided looking at the tangled mass of sheets as he stomped into the bathroom. He flipped both switches, the meager air filter sputtering to life a few seconds after the lights, and pressed in the button lock. Leaning against the door, he closed his eyes. He heard the sounds of the outside door closing and the window sliding open, the crank squeaking in protest.

Then he unbuttoned his jeans, tugging the zipper down impatiently. He really did need to pee; his bladder was nearly to the bursting point. But there was something he had to do first.

***

_Please review. Thanks!_


	3. December 20, 1998

**Title:** It's All in the Wrist, Sam Winchester  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** Dean/Sam  
**Rating:** R  
**Word Count:** 2,092  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters. No profit being made, no offense intended.  
**Spoilers:** none  
**Notes/Warnings:** slash, Wincest, bad words, masturbation of a minor

**Summary: **Sam has needs, too. Sometimes they require an extra hand. Namely, his brother's.

**A/N:** The seeds of Wincest are blooming. And now that I've beaten that metaphor to death...

***

_December 20, 1998 – The Royal Palms Motel – Gary, Indiana_

Sam woke up with a serious case of morning wood. Serious enough to hurt.

His right palm itched to touch it. The only problem was, he could hear the shower running in the bathroom. And since the bed next to him was empty, it meant Dad was in the shower. Which meant Dean was still asleep on the floor, having lost the bed the night before in an ill-advised game of "Rock, Paper, Scissors."

Wait. Scratch that. Dean _wasn't_ asleep on the floor because, yup, that was Dean's foot touching the back of Sam's leg.

Damn it. He was trapped.

Sam shifted his weight, drawing his knee up a little in the hopes that the tiny bit of friction would help alleviate his misery a little. But it didn't. It only acted like a teaser of things to come.

Things to come. Ha. He wished.

Just ignore it, he told himself. Think about something else.

Two times two is four.

Dean's less than a foot away.

Thirty-seven minus eighteen is nineteen.

He's probably got his mouth open.

The square root of 49 is 7.

His shirt's probably hiked up in the back, revealing a bit of skin.

The area of a circle is pi r squared.

Dad's in the shower. Dad's in the shower. Dad's in the shower.

_Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis…_

You are not thinking about how warm Dean's body is under the blankets.

You kill a werewolf with a silver bullet to the heart.

Your dick did not just get harder.

Dean's toes skimmed along the back of Sam's calf and Sam jerked his leg away, gripping a handful of sheets. "Dean," he croaked out.

He felt the bed shift next to him, heard a sleepy snuffle, but then nothing.

"Dean," he said more firmly. He had to make Dean move before…before…well, Dean just had to move.

"Wha—?"

Sam kicked back with his foot, made solid contact with Dean's shin. "Get outta the bed, dude," he said. "You lost, remember?"

"Come on, Sammy," Dean protested and slid closer. Sam could feel Dean's body heat against his back. "It's freezing in here. The heater went out at, like, three o'clock this morning." Dean's voice was deeper than usual, husky with sleep, and Sam closed his eyes against it. He tightened his grip on the sheets.

"That doesn't sound like my problem," Sam gritted out and kicked again, a little harder. "Now move. You're stealing all the blankets," he added, tugging on them dramatically.

"Sammy," Dean said, dragging the name out in that way that meant he was about to cajole Sam into getting his own way.

"Dean—" Sam began, trying to head his brother off at the pass. But Dean was already wrapped around him, toes burrowing between Sam's feet, left arm tucked around Sam's ribcage. Dean tucked his fingers into the space between Sam's right side and the mattress.

"Ah, that's better," Dean said and Sam could feel Dean's breath against the back of his neck.

Sam swallowed and concentrated on keeping his breathing even. "Get off me," he said, squirming inside Dean's embrace. His brother drove him crazy. Dean was always too damn cool to be touchy feely. Well, with his little brother anyway. Unless, of course, it suited his purposes. Like now.

"Dean," Sam tried again, getting desperate. All he needed was to erupt in his shorts, with his brother's hand mere inches away. "Come on. Get _off_ me." He threw back his left shoulder, making contact with Dean's and heard his brother's irritated harrumph.

"_Fuck_, Sam," Dean said, removing his arm from around Sam's ribs. He shoved Sam roughly in the shoulder. "What the hell's your problem?"

Dean was angry now; Sam could hear it. He hated it when Dean was mad at him, but, you know…desperate times and all that. "I don't have a problem, Dean," Sam said, opening his eyes and blinking at the tacky lamp perched on the night stand. It had palm trees painted on it. To match the name of the motel, he guessed. "I just don't want you all over me, that's all."

"That's all, huh?" Dean asked. "Hmm."

Oh, crap. Sam knew that _hmm_. He turned, holding his arm up in a defensive gesture, but it was too late. Dean dug his fingers into Sam's sides.

Sam felt like crying; the torture in his groin wasn't easing even a little and now he had to deal with _this._ It was almost too much. "Dean, please…" Sam said between breaths, trying to bat Dean's hands away. "Stop. Please stop."

But, of course, Dean didn't stop. That wasn't how this game was played. Dean wouldn't stop until Sam (or Dad) made him. And since Sam could still hear the shower running, he knew he was on his own.

Dean was grinning, an evil glint in his green eyes, and he moved his hands down along Sam's ribs, digging in to the soft spots right above Sam's hips. Sam whimpered and bit his lip, then found the strength to grab hold of Dean's upper arms and flip them both over, the blankets falling away. He sat astride Dean's thighs and pressed the weight of his upper body down onto Dean's arms, holding him against the mattress.

"I said _stop_," he said in a hoarse voice, meeting his brother's eyes. His breaths were coming in shallow gasps from a dry throat. "Please."

The grin slowly slipped from Dean's face. "Sammy, what's the matter?" Sudden concern darkened his eyes and he shifted a little, trying to sit up.

Sam closed his eyes and whimpered against the friction. It hurt so bad, he could hardly stand it. He could feel his dick pressing against the layers of fabric binding him and he knew, _knew_ Dean could see it. He didn't open his eyes, waited instead for the laugh he knew would be coming.

Only it didn't. "Oh, fuck," he heard Dean whisper. "Jeez, Sam. I'm sorry."

Sam shook his head, felt the slow burn of a blush beneath his skin. He wanted to say something, but couldn't get his mouth to work right. He felt Dean shift beneath him again, barely a movement at all, and let out a cry. He sounded pathetic, but he didn't care. He couldn't help it.

"Don't," he choked out, his eyes watering as he squeezed them shut even tighter. "Don't move."

"Sam." He could hear Dean breathing, felt the rise and fall of Dean's stomach between his knees. "Sam, let go of me."

Sam shook his head. He was afraid to move, even a fraction.

"Sammy. Please let go."

Sam managed to release his grip on Dean's arms, felt the tingle of blood returning to his fingers.

He concentrated on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Slow and steady and yeah, this was better. He was going to be okay. And once Dad was finally done in the bathroom, he could finish being mortified in peace.

But then…

Warm fingers slid past his waistband and tugged it down before he even had time to react. His eyes flew open and saw that yes, both his hands were visible. He also saw his own dick, dark and heavy, and Dean looking up at him, pupils wide in the gray morning light.

"Dean." The name was barely a whisper on Sam's lips.

"Shh…" Dean soothed, wrapping his fingers around Sam's dick. "It's okay, Sammy."

Sam curled his fingers into the sides of Dean's t-shirt, a small cry escaping his throat. "I…" he managed. "I…"

Dean just held him, dragging the tip of his thumb along the length of the vein underneath. "I know, Sammy. I know," he whispered, holding Sam's gaze. "I need it, too, sometimes."

Sam just nodded. Dean understood. He didn't think Sam was a freak or a pathetic loser who couldn't control his own body.

Dean moved his hand, dragging it down Sam's length, then up again. Sam drew in a sharp breath and pushed into Dean's fist, wanting more. Dean stroked again, the sharp-sweet pain of it exquisite torture. Sam thrust into Dean's fist again. Come on. Come _on_.

Taking the hint, Dean pulled his hand up until he closed his index finger and thumb over the head, capturing a few drops of pre-come and spreading it down the shaft as he dragged his fist back down. Dean then speeded up, jerking Sam with a smooth, practiced motion.

Sam threw his head back and closed his eyes, felt his Adam's apple slide painfully against the skin of his throat. He vaguely recognized the sound of the shower turning off and opened his eyes, tilting his head to look back down at Dean.

"Dad," he whispered, the name edged in panic. He felt his eyes go wide.

"Don't worry, Sam," Dean said softly, his hand still moving. "We've got plenty of time. All the time in the world."

All the time in the world. If Dean said it, then it was true, because Dean wouldn't lie to him. Sam didn't think about the look that would be on their dad's face if he caught them or about the note of disgust he'd hear in Dad's gravelly voice when he finally found the words to speak. All he thought about was this: Dean's hand on his dick and the fire in his belly and the way time seemed to have stopped. His eyes fell shut again.

"Gimme your shirt, Sammy," Dean said through a fog.

Sam heard the words, but he didn't react. His muscles felt like warm clay, soft and malleable.

"Sammy."

"Huh?"

"Your shirt," Dean said again. "Take it off. Hurry up."

The words took their time sinking in, but then Sam understood. He let go of Dean's shirt and curled his fingers beneath the hem of his own, tugging it over his head just as the fire spread outward from his belly.

He felt the garment get tugged from his fingers as he came, his body shuddering, teeth digging into his bottom lip to hold back the cry that threatened to escape. Dean stroked him through the aftershocks, until he could breathe again, then let go, the loss of heat drawing a small sound from Sam's throat. Sam opened his eyes, saw Dean wiping his hand on the balled-up t-shirt in his left fist. His skin felt tingly and his eyelids drooped.

Dean smirked at him. "Feel better?"

Sam smiled and nodded groggily. "Mm-hm."

Dean chuckled. "Good," he said. "Because I can't feel my legs." He jerked one knee. "Get off me, Sasquatch."

Sam slid off Dean's legs and fell onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He felt the bed shift next to him, felt Dean nudge his shoulder. "Pull your pants up, Sammy," Dean said, his voice low. Then he lifted one eyebrow. "Unless you want Dad to know all about your little morning problem."

Grinning at his brother, Sam lifted his butt off the bed and yanked up his pants. "_Little_?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Please. I've seen bigger." He grinned. "I _have_ bigger."

Sam laughed and picked up a pillow, throwing it at Dean. "Prove it."

"Prove what?"

The deep voice startled him and Sam looked over to see Dad standing in the bathroom doorway, his face half-covered in shaving cream, a funny little expression on his face.

Sam didn't know what to say, felt another blush creep up his neck at the memory of what had just happened with their dad only a few feet away. He heard Dean clear his throat, then heard the smooth timbre of Dean's voice as he spoke.

"Oh, nothing, Dad. You know Sam. He's always asking for proof of everything. Very skeptical boy, our Sammy. You could tell him the sky is blue and he'd still have to check."

Dad looked between them, his eyebrow lifting in the exact way Dean's always did. Sam folded his hands behind his head and for the first time that morning, felt just how cold the room was.

"Well," Dad finally said. "It's about time you boys got your lazy asses out of bed anyway. We've got work to do." He gave each of his sons another appraising look before disappearing back into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked.

Sam released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and stared back at the ceiling. He felt the bed shift again.

"Next time, Sammy," Dean whispered against his ear, "I _will_ prove it."

***

_Reviews are vital to my mental health. Just kidding. (But they're nice, anyway.)_


	4. September 19, 2001

**Title:** It's All in the Wrist, Sam Winchester  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** Dean/Sam  
**Rating:** R  
**Word Count:** 3,240  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters. No profit being made, no offense intended.  
**Spoilers:** none  
**Notes/Warnings:** slash, Wincest, bad words, mutual masturbation, angst

**Summary: **Sam has needs, too. Sometimes they require an extra hand. Namely, his brother's.

**A/N:** Um, yeah. This fic just got WAY angstier than I'd intended it to be. Huh. Go figure.

***

_September 19, 2001 – The Vagabond Motel – Merced, California_

Sam slammed through the door of room 38 and into the balmy night, leaving Dad and his unbending attitude as far behind as possible. Sam was tired of trying to explain. Dad didn't understand and he never would; worse, he wouldn't even try. As for Dean…well, he wasn't helping. Just once, Sam wished Dean would take _his_ side instead of always agreeing with Dad on everything.

"Damn it, Sam, get back here!" Dad yelled behind him, but Sam didn't stop. Didn't turn around. Didn't _obey_. He just kept walking, his sneakers methodically _thwapping_ on the pavement with each step. Maybe he'd just keep going. All the way to Stanford. Without looking back. Leave this life with nothing but the clothes on his back and a driving desire to be someone else. To surround himself with people who didn't know he'd learned how to field strip a gun at nine or knew all the words to the exorcism ritual by heart. He could just be Sam Winchester, freshman, who couldn't decide on a major and who was awkward around girls and who had no idea what normal was but was desperate to find out.

Sam cast a look over his shoulder. The motel was nearly out of sight. He expected to hear the rumble of the Impala's engine at any moment, to see his dad behind the wheel, eyes edged with anger, demanding Sam get his ass back in the car before his stupidity got him killed. But he didn't hear it. All he heard were the sound of his own breathing and the scuff of his shoes on the pavement.

So he kept walking, shoving his hands into his pockets, replaying Dad's words over and over again inside his head. _You can't just walk away from your family, Sam._ Walk away? He didn't want to walk away. He wanted to run. As fast as he could, as far as he could. But it wasn't his family he was trying to escape. Not really. It was everything else. He'd grown up in the shadows—first he'd been kept in the dark, then he'd been thrust into it head first. And he'd never had a say in any of it.

Well, fuck that. He'd made up his mind. He'd had enough of Dad's shit and of Dean always defending him, of the constant two against one battle that had been waging for weeks among them, ever since Sam had finally gotten the nerve up to tell them he'd been accepted to Stanford. Full scholarship. Was it too much to ask for a "Congratulations, Sam"? Apparently. Well, fuck that, too. He didn't need it anyway.

He'd been listening for the car, so the sound of his name being uttered behind him made him jump. He turned and saw Dean a few steps behind him, standing just inside the edge of a pool of yellow light thrown off by a streetlight, hands in his pockets.

"Did Dad send you to follow me?" Sam asked, not even trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Poor, helpless Sammy can't take care of himself, is that it?"

Dean shuffled his feet. "He worries about you, that's all."

Sam snorted. "Sure. Worries that he won't have me to boss around anymore, maybe."

"Sam," Dean said. "That's not fair. Dad—"

Sam gritted his teeth as he shook his head. "If you defend him one more time, Dean, I swear to fucking God…" His hands balled into fists inside his pockets.

"Such language, Sammy," Dean said, a half-smile curving one side of his mouth. "I may just have to bend you over my knee."

"Fuck you," Sam spat, relishing the surprised look that widened Dean's eyes. He couldn't remember actually saying that to Dean before. Well, at least not to his face.

The smile dropped from Dean's lips and he took a step forward. "That's enough, Sam. Let's go."

Sam felt his lips twist into a cruel smile. "No."

Dean had his fingers locked around Sam's arm before Sam could even react, reminding Sam once again that Dean was better than him at nearly everything—better at fighting, better at hunting, better at pool and darts and fixing cars.

Not to mention he'd _always_ be better at being John Winchester's son.

Sam jerked his arm away, grinding out the words, "Let go of me," through his teeth.

Dean stared up at him. Stared _up_ at him. That should give Sam a tiny bit of satisfaction, right? That his big brother was smaller than him? Only it didn't, because when Dean looked at him like that, he always felt so damn small. "You're being ridiculous, Sam."

Sam felt a knot of irrational anger at the base of his skull. "_I'm_ being ridiculous?" he asked, his voice rising. He looked pointedly at Dean. "What about _you_? Always defending Dad, no matter what. Never asking questions. Always taking his side, even when he's wrong. And he's wrong a lot, Dean, in case you haven't noticed."

A muscle worked in Dean's jaw. "He just wants what's best for us. For _you_."

"Only _he_ gets to decide what's best, doesn't he?" Sam said, holding Dean's gaze. "We don't get to choose."

Dean made a sound low in his throat, a barely stifled groan of frustration. "Jesus Christ, Sam," he said. "This"—he motioned between them—"isn't Dad's fault. He didn't choose this life for us. Our lives, including Dad's, were chosen for us the night Mom died. You _know_ that."

Sam wanted to scream. He was so fucking sick of hearing this. Lots of people lost a loved one; they didn't all end up dragging their kids into their quest for revenge, never giving them a real home, turning them into killers and calling it love. "No, I don't know that, Dean. Not for sure. I only know what Dad _told_ us, and we both know what a pillar of truth and virtue _he_ is." He took a breath, tried to bite back his next words, but couldn't. "He's a goddamn liar, Dean. He's lied to us our whole lives. He tells us he loves us, but he doesn't know what it means."

Before he knew it, he was on the ground, Dean standing over him, fists clenched and chest heaving, eyes cold. Sam just stared up at him and willed himself not to touch the trickle of blood he felt on his upper lip. He wouldn't give Dean the satisfaction.

But just as quickly as Dean's anger flared, it fizzled out, and his shoulders sagged heavily. "You just don't know when to shut up, do you, Sammy?" he asked softly, offering Sam a helping hand.

Sam refused to take Dean's hand, instead placing his palms flat against the pavement and pushing himself up. He felt shaky inside, unstable, felt like his skin was too tight. He wiped his hands carefully on his jeans, too angry to speak, and simply looked at Dean.

After a moment, Dean shook his head. "Dad's gonna rip me a new one for hitting you," he said, then cracked a half-smile. "Even though you totally deserved it." He reached out, grabbed Sam's chin between his fingers, and tilted Sam's head under the light, leaning in a little to check the damage.

Sam punched him then, taking the opportunity when Dean's guard was down and his weak side was unprotected to make solid contact. Dean staggered back a step, his fingers sliding from Sam's face. Sam's own fingers were still curled into tight fists at his sides, nails cutting into his palms, and he watched the emotions skitter across Dean's face—surprise, anger, sadness. The last one lingered, settling in the shadows beneath Dean's eyes. A red splotch was already blooming on Dean's left cheek, but Dean ignored it, choosing instead to hold Sam's gaze until Sam wanted to squirm.

"Okay, Sammy," Dean finally said, nodding slightly. "I get it." He backed away a step, then turned and headed back in the direction of the motel. After a few seconds, he stopped and said over his shoulder, "Dad'll come looking for you next, so don't be too long." Then he started walking again, his boots crunching on the gravel. Sam watched him until he disappeared around a building, then finally unclenched his fists.

Sam returned less than thirty minutes later. When he walked through the door of room 38, he didn't look up, just walked straight over to the adjoining door and into room 37, the room he and Dean shared. He closed the door behind him and began to undress, kicking off his shoes and peeling off his shirt on the way to the bathroom.

He stared at his reflection. His lip was cut and slightly swollen and a smear of dried blood under his nose was in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin. It wasn't the first time he'd been punched; it wasn't even the first time he'd been punched by Dean. But somehow, this punch hurt more because, once again, it was Dean taking Dad's side over him. Dad had committed the sin, but Sam had gotten punished for it.

It wasn't until he was in the shower and standing under the stream that he let himself cry.

*

Sam could hear their voices through the wall—both deep, but in different ways. Dean's voice was smooth, Dad's rumbled like distant thunder. He couldn't make out the words, but he knew they were talking about him.

He pulled the thin blanket up under his chin and listened to the rise and fall, the pitch and roll of their voices, envy coiling in his stomach. Dean and Dad had always been able to just _talk_ to each other. Just talk. About anything. Sam felt as though he had to fight for every word he exchanged with his dad—struggling to find the right ones, then struggling to say them the right way. But he never seemed to get it right. He had an easier time talking to Dean, but even then sometimes, he got it wrong. Meant one thing but said another. Said what he meant but wished he hadn't.

Like tonight. He had the busted lip to prove it.

The voices stopped and Sam heard the knob turn on the adjoining door. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. The door opened, then closed, and Sam followed Dean's progress through the room by the sound of his boots on the carpet. There was a creak of bedsprings as Dean sat down and the sound of a heavy sigh. Then nothing.

Sam opened his eyes since his back was to Dean and stared at the outline of light around the curtains. The sound of squealing brakes sounded in the distance. The faint echo of a television crept into the quiet from the room on the other side of them.

"I know you're awake," Dean said. "Your fake sleeping routine hasn't worked since you were six."

Sam didn't say anything. Okay, so Dean knew he was awake. That didn't mean Sam had to talk to him.

"There's not really a job here, Sam. I just convinced Dad there was," Dean said a moment later, and the bedsprings squeaked again as he shifted his weight. Two soft thuds in succession told Sam that Dean had taken off his boots. "The truth is, it's just close enough to Stanford without being obvious."

Sam closed his eyes, felt the burn of emotion in his throat.

"Dad hasn't figured it out yet," Dean said. "But he will. When he does…" He left it hanging, then chuckled a little. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time Dad's been pissed at me. Probably won't be the last."

Sam felt tears sting his eyes and he chewed at the inside of his bottom lip. He heard the squeak of the bedsprings again and the clink of Dean's belt buckle and a moment later, felt the other side of his own bed dip under Dean's weight. Then he felt the pressure of Dean's hand against his shoulder and the bloom of heat in his own skin through the blankets.

"Sam," Dean whispered, pressing in his fingertips.

Sam turned slightly, just enough so he could tilt his head to look up at Dean, who was looking back at him in the darkness. He felt Dean's hand move, felt it slide upwards until his fingertips grazed along Sam's cheek, then through his hair. He could hear Dean breathing.

Sam watched him, fighting the urge to touch him as a surge of guilt coursed through him. Dean needed him; Sam knew that even if Dean would never admit it. Without Sam, Dean had only Dad and his obsessions to keep him company.

"Come with me," Sam said before he could stop himself. It was a secret fantasy he'd been harboring since he'd first thought about leaving this life. Just he and Dean, living the lives they should have had. The ones they deserved. The ones that had been taken from them by fate and their father's unquenchable grief. He'd even gone so far as to imagine their apartment: mismatched furniture, skin mags mingled with copies of _Smithsonian_ on the coffee table, beer in the fridge, dirty dishes in the sink, the toilet seat always up. They could be happy. _Dean_ could be happy, for once.

Of course, Sam knew it would never happen. _Could_ never happen. Dean would never leave Dad. So when Dean gave him a sad smile, he wasn't surprised. But it still hurt.

"Could you see me in college, Sammy?" Dean asked, trying to make a joke, toying with a strand of Sam's hair. "I'd spend so much time chasing co-eds, I'd never go to class."

"You know what I mean," Sam said, turning completely to face Dean, not quite ready to give up the fantasy just yet. "Just you and me, Dean."

"You and me." Dean's smile widened a little. "Sounds nice."

"It could be." Sam pressed his head into the pillow and rested his hand on Dean's knee.

But Dean was shaking his head. "I can't." He said the words like they hurt, like he really wished he didn't have to, and that was something, at least.

Sam nodded. "I know." He pressed his fingers into Dean's skin and when Dean covered Sam's hand with his own, Sam flipped his over and grabbed Dean's wrist, giving it a tug. "Come here."

Dean hesitated, then pulled back the blankets and slid beneath them, turning on his side so he was facing Sam. Sam slid his hand across the short expanse of bed between them and found Dean's hand pressed flat against the sheet. Running his fingers over the back of Dean's hand, he inched forward until he could feel Dean's breath against his face.

"You love him, Dean," he whispered and watched Dean's eyes watch him. He curled his fingers around Dean's hand and pulled it towards him, placing it in the dip above his right hipbone, against the crescent of exposed skin where his t-shirt had ridden up. "But he doesn't deserve it."

Dean's fingers moved against Sam's skin, beneath the hem of his shirt and over his back, fingertips pressing into the knobs of his spine and tugging him closer. Sam complied, moving into the space between them until his knees bumped Dean's, until their chests almost met. Dean's hand was splayed against the small of his back, his breath was warm against Sam's lips, and Sam was hard. He slid his fingers over Dean's cheek, over the bruise he knew was there but couldn't see in the dark, and heard Dean whisper his name.

Sam moved his hand to Dean's hip, slipped his fingers beneath the elastic of Dean's boxers, and felt the warmth of Dean's skin against his palm. Dean lifted up from the bed to let Sam push them down, sliding his own fingers beneath the waistband of Sam's boxers and pressing his thumb into the groove of Sam's hip.

Dragging his hand forward, Sam wrapped his fingers around Dean's erection and heard his brother's sharp intake of breath. "Sammy," Dean whispered, pressing his fingers into Sam's hip.

Sam leaned in and brushed his lips against Dean's. They'd messed around before—usually a quick grope under the blankets before they were even fully awake in the morning—but they'd never kissed. Kissing was something you did with girls who had soft lips and soft bodies, who wore cherry-flavored lip gloss and giggled when you put your tongue in their mouth. You didn't kiss a guy. Especially not your brother.

But Sam had always wanted to. He'd even tried once three years ago, the first time Dean had let Sam jerk him off. Dean's eyes had fallen shut, his mouth falling open around a low groan, and Sam had leaned in and kissed him. Dean's eyes had flown open then and he'd pushed Sam away, saying angrily, "I'm not your fucking girlfriend, Sam." Dean had avoided him for the rest of the day and Sam thought he'd ruined everything. But later that night, after Dad had left, Dean had crawled into Sam's bed and let him finish what he'd started that morning. Without the kissing, of course.

When Dean didn't back away, Sam pressed in closer and felt his brother's lips, warm and slightly chapped, beneath his own. He tightened his grip on Dean's dick and felt a warm puff of breath escape Dean's lips. Dean's hand twitched against Sam's hip as he made a small sound.

"Touch me," Sam whispered.

Dean's thumb swept a half-circle over Sam's hip and a muscle jumped beneath Sam's skin at the sensation. He pressed up against Dean's hand and dragged his own thumb slowly down Dean's length. Dean's eyelids fell half-closed as he pushed at Sam's boxers, sliding them down over Sam's hip, Sam lifting up to help them along. Dean drew his hand back up, letting it rest flat against Sam's side as he rubbed his thumb in a slow arc over Sam's skin.

Sam breathed out, into Dean's mouth, and drew Dean's breaths into his own. Another small sound escaped Dean's throat as Sam started stroking and he watched Dean blink slowly, then again, felt Dean's thumb stop moving and his fingers dig in. Sam wanted Dean's hand on his dick, needed Dean to stroke him, to pull the release from his body. He didn't know what was holding Dean back, but even he could feel that something had changed between them; there was an air of urgency that had never been there before. Then it suddenly hit him: He was leaving soon.

"I'll miss you, Dean," he whispered.

Dean's breath hitched, a soft hiccup against Sam's lips, and Sam could feel Dean's lips trembling. Sam pressed in, wanting more, and felt Dean open for him. He slid his tongue past Dean's teeth. Dean wrapped his hand around Sam's erection.

Sam came first, too fast, pushing his release into Dean's mouth. Dean stroked him through it, then moved his hand to Sam's wrist to still it as Sam struggled to regain the rhythm he'd lost when the world went white. "Take your time, Sammy," Dean said softly against Sam's lips. "We've got all the time in the world."

Two days later, Sam was on a bus to Palo Alto.

***

_Reviews are appreciated. Thanks._


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